— 17 — THE MURDER“Balthasar,” said the Emperor, in pity of his friend’s sullen face, “I will send ye to Rome to make treaty with the Pope since it goes so heavily with you to stay in Frankfort.”
The Margrave bit the ends of his yellow hair and made no answer. The Empress half hay along the seat against the wall. On low stools near her sat her maidens sewing, three of them embroidering between them a strip of scarlet silk. It was the dining hall, the table laid already with rudely magnificent covers.
“Nay, be pleasant with me,” smiled the Emperor; he laid his arm affectionately round the Margrave’s huge shoulders. “Certes, since I took this resolution not to go to Rome, I have nought but sour looks from all, save Hugh.”
Balthasar’s good-humoured face cleared. “Ye are wrong, my Prince; bu
